


Age is just a Number

by Spirishcat



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Gen, Marriage, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-17 22:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16983006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirishcat/pseuds/Spirishcat
Summary: After the events of Día de Muertos, the Rivera family's world is sent into a spin as things are brought into question, public attention is on them and the mysterious figure of Coco's Papá is suddenly back in their lives. Imelda must allow herself to admit the feelings she still has for him, but they spent an entire lifetime apart, and both she and Héctor are aware of not just a time gap between them but an age gap now as well. Will they learn to overcome this and even embrace the changes with the help of each other and their family?





	1. Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> Part of this chapter and the next one will involve parts of my old fanfic so may seem familiar to some of you who read that. Also, I know the 'year in between' is very familiar Coco fanfic territory, but I wanted to follow my own angle, exploring age and experiences that Héctor and Imelda had had entirely separately for almost a hundred years. Plus I find their technical age difference so adorable.

_I just wanted her to know that I loved her._   Héctor's words came struggling and short of breath. Though he had no lungs, his whole rib cage seemed to shake as if he had and his last breaths before death were being taken. The truth and poignancy of his words, the simple honesty in the claim, struck like a dagger into Imelda's heart as she watched her esposo struggle and she remembered how often she had turned him away, how often she had refused to let him speak a single word in his own defence, so determined that every word he would say would be another of his many mentiras. She watched as he struggled, prone on the floor, too weak even to stand, convulsing with the wavering security of the last few memories that kept him here in the Land of the Remembered.

There was nothing she could do. This was not like an illness in life where she could call for a médico, or make him comfortable or simply fight for him to stay with them. This was something beyond their control...the living and only the living had a say on who avoided the Final Death.

As he shuddered again, she reached forward, eyes on him, and placed her hands around his to steady his grip upon the petal of the cempasúchil he was attempting to hold out to Miguel as he gave the boy their blessing.

“No conditions,” Imelda added. What conditions mattered after all this? If she had learned anything tonight it was that all that there was so much more than rules and conditions and grudges and pain. What mattered was now, what mattered was getting Miguel home. Héctor had never been able to return, but there tataranieto could.

But Miguel kept refusing, so stubborn and determined, refusing to leave if he did not have Héctor's foto, forgetting the value of his own life at the prospect of Héctor being forgotten. But the sun was rising and Miguel's time was running out.

“I won't let Coco forget you” Miguel swore, but Imelda wasn't certain he could keep that promise no matter how much the boy sincerely wanted to. Her Coco was old now, older than Imelda had ever been, or anyone in the familia for that matter, and her memory was fading as much as her life....Miguel couldn't possibly make his Mamá Coc remember what had long since been lost from her mind, and if she couldn't remember, if she couldn't share her stories of Héctor...her First Death would be his Final...

But they couldn't let this be Miguel's death, no matter what happened. Keeping hold of Héctor's hand, Imelda leaned forward and guided their grip towards their nieto and forced the blessing upon him. He disappeared from the platform, awash in a glow of orange petals, leaving only a breath of the wind behind when he was gone, leaving behind an odd and empty silence that was punctuated only by Héctor's ragged breathing.

Imelda kept a tight grip upon her esposo's hand even though there was no longer a need to keep her grip, no blessing to give, no petal to hand over. And he  _was_  her espsoso, despite all her denials, despite all her refusals, he was and always had been....she just hadn't known it. Guilt and remorse and regret and frustration gripped in her belly, twisting organs that weren't even there anymore with the desire of wishing she could have done thing differently.

For decades upon decades she had thought he had left them, abandoned she and Coco and forgotten them in the face of fame and girls who swooned at celebrity. Handing over private songs for his amigo to sing to the entire world as if they meant nothing. But none of that was true, he had been loyal and loving the entire time, he had tried to come home, had wanted to return to she and Coco. Even while she had tried to forget him in retaliation of believing he had forgotten her, he had still continued to be her esposo, refusing to give up no matter how many times she shouted at him and turned him away the moment she joined him on this side of the bridge.

And now that she knew the truth, now that she thought they could perhaps reconcile, what chance was there? How could they regain what had been stolen from both of them so long ago, when they had so little time left? There was barely minutes before Héctor would succumb to the Final Death if Coco truly forgot him before she died herself. And even if she did remember him for a little longer, would it be enough to share and pass down? Would Héctor be doomed regardless? How was it fair for the truth to be finally known when they couldn't both be around to enjoy it?

Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away furiously, determined not to seem weak, not when Héctor would need her to be strong as all her familia did.

"Estás bien, Héctor..." She whispered reassuringly when he convulsed again, huesos jerking violently, the glow so long and bright that Imelda feared this really was the time, that she was about to feel her esposo's weak grip on her hand fade entirely, lost in a spray of ash and lost memories. She held her breath, tense and apprehensive, but the glow faded once more and still he remained.

Despite his constant spasms he still held her hand...or was she holding on so tightly that he couldn't possibly let go even if he wanted to? She glanced at his face and saw his eyes were heavily lidded, but he was managing to keep them open a little and currently his gaze was fixed firmly on her.

"You're still here..." He murmured, sounding confused and disbelieving as he continued to look her as if they were the only two people in the entire world. He used to look at her that same way many years ago, when they were both alive. Alive and young and happy.

"Where else would you expect me to be?" She countered seriously “I am not going anywhere, Héctor”

He smiled in reply at her words, before he convulsed again, this one so terrible and violent, the hand she was not holding came detached from his body, limp and lifeless next to him. Imelda almost moved to reattach it, but before she could, someone else did it for her. Óscar had rushed forward, kneeling beside them and reattached the hand, though it was a lifeless click, held together by mere force of will than any memories. 

"Gracias," Imelda whispered, her eyes on her brother now, immense gratitude in her gaze, trying to say everything she couldn't communicate now. It had been only her brothers to help her when she had been left alone to raise Coco; their parents had both been dead by that point, their family so small...it had been the reason Imelda had always envisioned a large family, to create what she and her brothers had never really had for long. Óscar and Felipe had been young, still boys really, when Héctor left on his tour, and still young when Imelda had realised her esposo was not returning, when she had thrown all música from their home...but they had never protested, never argued, never defied. They had helped in anyway they could; making sure things were tidy, buying things from the market for her, and had contributed however they could in making shoes until they had become great shoemakers themselves. And they never left home, they never went out into the world to make their own name, but stayed with her, by her side, joining her business, helping her keep their familia together.

And now they were by her side again.

"I'm glad you're here," Héctor murmured and for a moment Óscar jerked with surprise, thinking his brother-in-law was talking to him until he saw Héctor's eyes were fully fixed on Imelda, "I'm glad we're together one last time before--"

"No," Imelda firmly cut him off, "No" She repeated, though she knew it was useless to deny it. The Final Death was near, he was too weak, too forgotten, and she had played her part in it. Ernesto had murdered him, but she had made sure he was never remembered by his own familia, she had ripped his foto, she had refused to talk about him, to tell any stories....this lay at her door too. And the pain of that was almost too much to bear. It was a guilt she would never be free of, it would be by her side when Héctor was long gone, tormenting her. How could she have ever thought so terribly of Héctor when she knew the sort of hombre he was? Good and loyal and honest. How could she think so terribly of him?

She brought Héctor's hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles lightly. She would wait here for as long as it took for the inevitable to pass, even if it took hours she would not leave him alone, she wouldn't abandon him  and leave him to be forgotten with no one by his side. He had been denied his familia for all of his death and she would not have it denied now as well. Imelda looked up at the rest of her familia who were hovering and gestured silently for them to come closer. 

They looked at one another, apprehensive, but when the twin Tíos also encouraged them closer, they moved forward as a complete trio. Júlio removed his hat, holding it in his hands as he stood over Héctor, like he was at a service. Rosita hesitated only a moment before deciding to join Imelda and Óscar and kneel on the floor beside Héctor. Victoria seemed less sure, uncertain whether to copy her Papá or her Tía. She finally settled for standing and felt Dante sit beside her, leaning against her skirts, his ears drooping sadly.

Héctor seemed to want to say something but he convulsed yet again, this one so violent it turned him over onto his side as he curled up in pain. Imelda had always heard that the Final Death was peaceful, that those last moments were gentle and soft, like w hisper...pero, this...this was violent and painful and agonising to see. It was like watching a battle.

Still keeping hold of his hand, she rested her free hand on his side, fingers resting where his rib cage poked through the holes in his chaqueta. The same chaqueta he had been wearing the day she had arrived in the Land of the Dead. He had stood waiting for her, with a gift in his hand and a smile on his face...and she had returned the gesture by hitting him with her bota.

Guilt gripped her again. And Imelda Rivera was not a woman prone to self-guilt and self-pity.

“Estamos aquí, Héctor, estamos aquí contigo” She reassured him as they gathered around him in a vigil. She was not even certain he could hear her.

They kept their vigil around Héctor for what seemed like hours upon hours, nobody saving very much at all, except brief whispered preguntas to one another, or to give their reassurances to Héctor whenever he jerked or winced in pain. Imelda never let go of his hand, holding on as tightly a ever, and part of her began to believe that it was only her grip that was keeping him from the Final Death and to let go would be to see him finally disappear.

It was only as daylight had truly risen on the Land of the Remembered and the concert hall, that night filled to the rafters with people, fans of Ernesto De La Cruz, now entirely empty of it's audience and the morning workers began to make their way in to clear away the debri of Día de Muertos, that Rosita voiced what she presumed Mamá Imelda had not yet noticed.

 

"Erm.." She began, clearing her throat as she looked at Héctor, who seemed to be half asleep, breathing steadily, lay on his side, with both his hands wrapped around Imelda's now, anchoring himself to his estranged esposa. Rosita tapped him on the shoulder lightly "You haven't had a spasm in over an hour" 

"What?" Imelda asked, speaking before Héctor could attempt to answer himself. 

"I mean he was glowing quite a lot before, and now....he looks tired, lo siento" She added in apology in case Héctor was insulted, but he dismissed it with a tired smile, "But he hasn't had any of those glowing spasms for a while....maybe..." She shrugged, looking around at everyone, "No sé.....maybe he's not being forgotten just yet. Maybe there's more time than we thought”

Imelda considered Rosita's words, looking back at Héctor as she did so and realised her hijastra was right. Héctor did not look particularly strong, or even well, but he was no longer the crumbling, convulsing mess he had been when they had sent Miguel back to the Land of the Living. Quizás, Coco had remembered her Papá for a little while longer, quizás her mind had not lost what little she had of him yet....and if that was true, then that meant that Héctor  _did_  have a little more time. None of them could be certain how much, and Imelda would not let herself hope something that could turn to disappointment so easily, but it might be enough to get him away from this drab place and to somwehere more warm and welcoming and private. Somewhere that was home.

"You're right," Imelda finally said, nodding briefly in agreement, her mind already whirring with thoughts and plans of what needed to be done next. Her entire life had dictated that she always know what was to come, what needed to be done, in order to provide for her familia and keep a roof over all their heads. That habit had not died when she had. "Coco must have remembered him a little longer"

"Maybe it was Miguel," Felipe suggested.

"Maybe," Imelda said though she wasn't convinced. She had seen her daughter every Día de Muertos and of late she had been getting worse, her memory fading even more quickly than her body...how could one little boy fight that? But if Coco remembered Héctor for just a little longer, just for a time, then it was more than they thought they had and Imelda would not let it go to waste. She returned her focus to her marido. "Do you think you can stand, Héctor? If we help you?"

Héctor had not entirely understood the conversation. There was a ringing in his ears and he felt so tired that the entire world was too bright and loud and bold and confusing. He just wanted to sleep, but eventually he realised that a response was expected from him and that Imelda was asking him something directly. Her expression wasn't filled with anger either, not anger or disgust or hate. Just concern. She hadn't looked at him like that since he had been alive.

“¿Perdón?” He asked, blinking.

“Can you stand if we help you?” Imelda repeated.

He considered this for a moment, as well as everything else that had been said around him. He had to admit he did feel a little better, he felt as weak as he had been feeling for a very long time, the weakness that had told him he didn't have long before he was forgotten, but he no longer felt as bad as he had...he felt like he could stand, maybe even walk. He could make himself walk.

Héctor eventually nodded in answer to Imelda's question and began to try to push himself up. Immediately, he felt Imelda's hand at his back supporting him, her other hand on his shoulder to steady him. It made him stop, surprised by the touch. For even though she had been holding his hand for hours, it had been so, so long since....since she had touched him with anything other than a smack of a boot. There was care in this touch, and concern. He looked at her, meeting her eyes which did not avert from his when their gaze met. She gave him a small nod of encouragement which seemed to give him the strength he needed to force himself to his knees. Then one of Imelda's hermanos were at his other side—he wasn't sure which one as he had never been able to tell the difference between those two from the moment they were born—helping him up as well. Then the other gemelo was propping him too and before long the whole familia seemed to each have a piece of him, getting him back to his feet. He stumbled a little once he was upright, but there were enough people around him to steady him and stop him from falling over completely.

"Lean on me," Imelda encouraged as she took his arm and placed it over her shoulder. If he'd felt better he might have made something of that, and of how close the stance forced them to be, hip bone to hip bone, rib cage to rib cage, so close he could smell her hair. He might have passed a comment, truly shown his appreciation...but he just didn't have the energy right now. Everything he had had to go into walking.

"Where are we going?" He asked as the group moved forward as one entity, even Pepita shuffling behind them at a slow pace, all around Héctor like a collection of bodyguards.

"We are taking you home" Imelda informed him, holding him up as much as she could, making sure not to walk any faster than she felt he was currently capable of. He had a significant limp that effected his whole gait and she felt the impact of it with every step. Looking down she saw that part of his lower leg bone was not attached, and there was a break in the one that was, badly taped back together in an amateur effort to fix it.

"No," He shook his head, "No, no, no, Shantytown is too far, Imelda...you can't all walk there. And there's mud, you'll ruin your dress"

"She means taking you  _home_ , Héctor," Felipe corrected and rolled his eyes.

"Ninety-seven years" Óscar added

"And he's still"

"Clueless" They said together and Héctor managed to look affronted despite his exhaustion. 

"We are taking you  _home_ , Héctor," Imelda repeated.

"With your family," Rosita added with a smile that Héctor couldn't help but return, even though his eyes said only surprise and wonder....to be called family so suddenly when he didn't even really know anyone's names properly, and they didn't know him at all. 

"Home?" Even if the Final Death came tomorrow for him, he would die knowing he had been at home with his familia, that he had finally, after all this time, managed to get home, to return to them. He could spend these last few hours he had getting to know them all. He could make the very best of the short time he had left and make them the best final hours anyone had  _ever_  had. Even if he could never see Coco again, he could still see all these others, he could meet his dead familia if not the living one, and they could tell him stories about Coco, all the things she had done, what she looked like, he could die having known her life.

Perhaps it was not a lot, but after so long alone, so long with no one but the other Forgotten, so long without his familia, he would take even the smallest crumb.

"If we walk at this rate, it's going to take a really long time..." He added. 

"We will not walk the whole way," Imelda told him, ignoring the joking tone in his voice, knowing all too well that he was doing it just for the sake of covering up how he felt. They may have been estranged for nearly a century, but she still remembered his tricks and habits. Everytime he had been ill or tired in life, anytime there was anything wrong, he would never admit it. Instead he would put on a smile, assure everyone he was fine and make a joke to prove it, hoping no one would see through the jovial facade. She had seen through it every time "Pepita will take us home"

At the name, Héctor turned his gaze on the giant alebrije behind them, remembering his  _last_  flight on the creature.

"You know walking is  _fine_ , it's absolutely fine. Who doesn't like a stroll?" He attempted to bound forward, to prove he was, if not well remembered, at least still remembered enough to walk without any need of taking a flight on  _that_  thing, but after only two steps, he stumbled a little, tripping over his own lose feet.

"Whoa!" Júlio exclaimed, catching him before he fell completely and propping him back up. "I don't think you could walk all the way home, señor, not without losing a foot"

"Oh who needs two feet, one will do fine!" Héctor dismissed.

Despite his continued attempts to convince them otherwise, Pepita  _did_  fly them all home, Dante included, who, having recently developed wings, was not yet able to fly for long distances without falling very far behind. This flight, however, Héctor did not find as unpleasant and unnerving as the last, primarily due to the fact he found himself place up front rather than hanging on for dear life at the back of Pepita's tail. The flight was also a great improvement for the fact Imelda kept a hold of him the entire time, one hand holding his, the other around his shoulders, holding him close and holding him steady, clearly concerned he might spasm again and fall off Pepita entirely.

He didn't  _feel_  like he was going to spasm though. He felt...different. All night he had felt as if he was on the cusp of being forgotten, that the last memory tying him here was fading as he spoke, crumbling away like paper in a fire. He had felt it so much that he hadn't even been certain he would last the entire night, but now....now...it didn't feel that way. He even felt better than he had moments ago in the concert hall. Maybe it was the fresh air of the flight having some....psychosomatic effect...or maybe...maybe he was being a bit more remembered. If he felt like he had a day to live yesterday, now he felt like he had two weeks. Maybe he was still on his last legs, but not...immediately. He was still remembered enough to make a joke, to sit upright, to get to know people, to maybe, just maybe, make amends before...

Before Coco died and he  _was_  forgotten. He didn't know which made him feel worse; the idea of his Coco dying, the idea he would never see her again, or that Miguel would feel he had failed when it couldn't be further from the truth. 

"Help me get him inside," Imelda instructed when they finally landed at the door to their home. Héctor was relieved to find it's appearance was not much different from the home he remembered in Santa Cecilia; it was familiar and reassuring and made him feel that maybe he  _was_  coming home, rather than just being allowed in a strange house. 

And Imelda  _still_  hadn't let go of him. He didn't know whether he should think too much on that. 

But she had said 'love of my life'

But then she had denied she said it.

But she  _had_  said it. 

These thoughts consumed him as he was led through the house, which was as familiar inside as it was outside. He only stopped his mind going in the same circles when Imelda finally let go of his hand as they all, collectively as a group, helped him onto a bed that lay at the head of the room he had been guided into. He thought it was simply a spare room until he recognised certain items that made him realise that this was Imelda's bedroom. So lost in his thoughts, he couldn't recall if she had made this decision or one of the others had.

"I can stay in Victoria's room if you like" Imelda assured him when she saw the realisation of where he was dawn in his eyes. "If you would  _prefer_  to rest alone. But I thought maybe you would like to have company--"

"No, no, no," Héctor immediately rushed out, stumbling over his words in an effort to reassure Imelda that he was perfectly happy with the arrangement, that he didn't want her to go away, that she hadn't thought wrong. "I mean yes, I mean no-- I mean, wait"

Imelda and Victoria both sighed impatiently as they looked at him with matching expression.

"I would like company," He finally clarified, "If you wouldn't mind. Stay” He pleaded from where he lay, propped against the pillows on the bed, his eyes not leaving Imelda for a long moment until he looked around the room as well “All of you. Some of you. Any of you. We don't know how long I have, maybe we can take time to learn some things"

"Héctor..." Imelda began warningly, concerned that rest is what he needed...but skeletons needed rest out of habit, not health, and resting wouldn't have any effect on how much he was remembered. 

"Please, Imelda," He begged sincerely, returning his gaze to her again "even if I lie down as I hear them, even if I say nothing, I want to hear things, I want to know them"

She almost protested, but it was a pointless, selfish protest, and would do nothing to make Héctor feel better, or soothe his last hours. Refusing him would be another injury and she didn't want to be the cause of anymore of his suffering. With a sigh and a drop of the shoulder, her protest died on her metaphorical tongue. As she took a seat in the chair beside the bed, she nodded, and took his hand once more. Héctor gripped back with far more strength than he had at the concert hall "What do you want to know?"

"How about we begin with names" He suggested.

 


	2. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the morning after, both Héctor and Imelda have their own knee-jerk reactions

Despite Héctor insisting on staying awake and that they keep him company, that he wanted to know as many things as possible, that he wanted to stay up so they could talk and share stories and he could learn things, and despite his constant instances that he did feel better, that he felt well enough to have company and to talk, that sitting in bed hearing stories was better that lay in bed waiting for sleep or the Final Death, whichever took him first...despite all this and more, it did not take long for him to became exhausted. Imelda noticed his eyes drooping slightly, his cabeza lolling a little, it even almost fell of his neck entirely at once point, when he dropped it so low into his ribcage as he fought off sleep as he listened.

At that point Imelda had insisted that enough was enough. It was one thing to keep a vigil in a concert hall while he burned bright with broken and weakened memories, it was another to stay around a bed continually talking for díos knew how long just in case he might disappear. No matter any emotion Imelda felt at the thought, her practical nature took control and demanded that space be given so that rest could be had. When a few weak arguments were, she pointed it out that it was already nearly the middle of the day and that not one of them had rested for the entirety of día de muertos. The dead might not necessarily need sleep for their health as the living did, but the memory of sleep and the benefits it had meant it was still needed if they wanted to be functional, comprehensive human beings.

And she was the matriarca of the familia and what she said was law. They were going to bed. Héctor needed rest even more so than the rest of them.

 _“The less remembered get exhausted more easily,”_ Felipe explained in a whisper when he had seen Victoria about to ask the question as they all reluctantly filed out of Imelda's bedroom with glances thrown back at this curious newcomer who most of them had only ever known as a nameless figure retold constantly in a cautionary tale of betrayal and abandonment. The very tale that was the reason there was no música in the Rivera family.

“People don't age here....but they can age with memories,” Óscar added, putting his hand on his gran sobrina's shoulder. The less well remembered any person was, the older they felt, the more exhausted they could get. It was why you could see a skeleton who looked to be hundreds of years old when in fact they were only dead twenty years if people didn't remember them well in the Land of the Living. And Héctor...well he had been holding on by the merest thread of a memory for years. It wasn't just amazing he was still here, it was amazing he wasn't a pile of crumbled bones waiting for the Final Death.

As Imelda watched everyone reluctantly trail out of the room, she knew they all had as many questions about Héctor as he had about them and she felt a shock of pain at the realisation that they most have harboured these questions in their minds all their lives and beyond. Questions about a man she had refused to speak of, told no stories of, given them nothing, not even a name, only known as the músico who had abandoned his familia. Even Coco had kept silent about her Papá once she reached a certain age and realised the potency and injury of talking about him or music. She had been raised to believe Héctor was better off forgotten for all their sakes...though apparently, she had been no more able to forget him entirely than Imelda ever had. Despite her best efforts, Héctor had still found his way into Imelda's thoughts, long into her later years, ever present, no matter what she did to forget him, to erase him from her life and her memories.

Had she had questions too? Questions she had never asked her mother? Had she made everyone afraid to ask? Had she put fear in their hearts when all she had wanted to do was protect them and keep them safe, stop them from suffering the same pain she had suffered. Music only broke hearts, and a man who chose music over his family was not a man who deserved their attention or their thoughts.

“Where did everyone go?” Héctor asked, waking up again from his brief nod.

“I sent them to bed”

“And they went?”

“Yes, people do as their told in this casa. Usually” Imelda informed him. Until Miguel no one had ever questioned her decisions or gone against her instructions. “You need to rest as well”

“But I wanted to....talk....” Héctor murmured, sounding like a sleepy child. He even looked a little like Coco used to when she was a teenager and she would be trying so hard to fight sleep, to be an adult, but exhaustion would take her in the end regardless of any fight she attempted to put up.

“And we can talk more when you've rested. It's been a long night, Héctor, and now you are making it a long day” Before he could protest further, she began to move the pillows and sheets on her bed so that he was lay down and covered well. As she did so, she silently took note of the state of his clothes as well as his bones. Everything about him was falling apart and patched up terribly. Barely held together by a thread or tape. She hadn't known things were so bad...how could she when any attempt he made to come near her was rewarded by her shouting at him or hitting him or, a veces, having Pepita chase him away.

Ay, she had wanted to forget him but...she hadn't wanted him to be forgotten. She just imagined he would always be there. Far away but there. Not gone. Not gone forever.

“Are you leaving too?” Héctor asked, looking up at her forlornly from under the covers, now truly looking more a child than ever.

Imelda hesitated. “I...no sé. Do you _want_ me to stay?”

“Not if you don't want to” He answered and she rolled her eyes in frustration.

“I am _not_ having one of those silly arguments of seeing who will commit first. Do you want me in this room or not?”

There was silence.

“Sí,” Came the eventual answer and Imelda nodded sharply in agreement, before resuming her seat in the chair beside the bed.

“Ahora, go to sleep” She instructed him.

He continued to fight it, seeming to want to watch her as he lay there, but it was only a short time before exhaustion won the same battle it had won with Coco many times before and his eyes shut, his breathing becoming steady. Forty years in the Land of the Remembered, and Imelda still found it strange that they all still breathed. They held their breath if they swam even though they didn't need to. Or perhaps they did need it. A different need from life. The same need for eating, sleeping, wearing certain clothes, working....all of it was for familiarity and comfort.

Something of which Héctor had had so little.

While he slept, Imelda got herself a little more comfortable in her chair, covering her knees with a blanket and taking a small pillow from the end of the bed to place at her back. She unwounded the braids of her hair from their bun, and their unwound her braids and the ribbons twisted within them too until her hair was lose and a little of the neckache and headached she had began to pass. She could feel her own eyes beginning to droop a little.

Héctor quivered a little in his sleep and Imelda hesitated only a moment before reaching over to hold his hand. It steadied him and his muttering quietened again and Imelda knew she would be keeping this bedside vigil until he woke.

 

Hours passed in the Rivera house in which all the familia slept on, feeling an exhaustion none of them had known since their arrival in the Land of the Dead. It was also the first time the zapataría had been closed since the day Imelda had begun her business again in the Land of the Dead. People en la calle frowned at the sight in puzzlement, wondering where the family could be. The Riveras never closed shop on a work day, and they were always open the day after día de muertos, always. People began to mutter and wonder if the rumours were right. People were saying that the Riveras had been the ones on stage last night at the Sunrise Spectacular. That it had been Señora Rivera on stage singing. No, other people said, the Riveras hate music, everyone knew that and the family matriarch was the one who was the most vehement in upholding that rule. Not even whistling was permitted in her presence. She wouldn't be the one singing La Llorona.

But it seemed too much of a coincidence for the shop now to be closed.

Were they the family with the living boy? And who was the Héctor that De La Cruz had murdered? The boy's tatarabuelo, sí, but who was he? Some people said he was one of the músicos who hung out in the plaza, but other said it was the bumbling idiot who lived in the shantytowns with the rest of the Nearly Forgotten.

Maybe this is why the zapataría isn't open, one woman said, so they don't have to put up with all this gossip.

 

When Héctor woke up, he was surprised to find himself feeling actually awake. He felt _better._ Like a lot better, like the kind of better that you didn't get just from a bit of rest, the kind of better that came from _memories._ No, no, he couldn't get over excited. He had hoped for this for so long, that his daughter would finally talk about him, finally put up his foto, finally help him be remembered....he wasn't going to get his hopes up now. But Miguel...he was special and he was determined. He had reminded Héctor a lot of Imelda now that he thought about it. She wasn't anyone to take no for an answer either.

Wait, Imelda.

Héctor's memories suddenly caught up with him as he recalled flying home on Pepita, Imelda holding onto him, being brought into the casa, being brought into Imelda's bedroom, her bed-- jerking a little as he turned so quickly to see where she was now, he was surprised to find she was right beside him. Not in the bed, but in the chair. Had she stayed there all night? She had fallen asleep herself, was still sleeping now, having slumped over enough to rest her head on the bed...and she was holding onto his hand. She was _holding_ onto his _hand._ Considering every time he had seen her for the last forty years she had thrown something at him, this was...this was.....muy grande.

She had taken her hair out as well. He used to love doing that for her when they were alive and happy and in love. He liked seeing the braids cascade out down her back in waves and he would kiss her neck and hold her close and she would laugh before giving in and falling back against him. So happy. Some of the happiest times that Héctor could remember. Her hair was different now though. It was still the same style, but grey and white streaked through it. He whole hair was dotted with silver lines, but there were two bold streaks that poured through like moonlight on a dark river.

Imelda had gotten older. She had gotten older without him. He had been dead fifty years when she arrived here...which meant she had gotten fifty years older. Fifty years of experiences, fifty years of memories, fifty years of life...all of which he'd had no part of. All of which he never shared.

And he could have shared them. They could have grown older together, had those fifty years together. If he hadn't listened to Ernesto. If he hadn't gone on that stupid tour, if he hadn't let his so called amigo fill his head with stupid ideas.

* * *

 

 

“You do _not_ need to _travel_ to make money from music, Héctor” Imelda argued, refusing to be moved from her position both in her opinion and from where she stood in the doorway. If she entered the room any further, Héctor would reach out to her, he would have a hand on her arm, reassure her with soft touches and warm words, threatening to work his way through herself with the same ease he always did. And she didn't want to be moved. She was right about this, and she knew she was right about it. This was a bad idea.

“Lo sé, Imelda, and I won't travel, I won't. It's just this short tour, if I do this one tiny tour and someone likes our songs--”

“Your songs,” She countered. “I do not think Ernesto has ever written anything except his own name on any of your work” All the chicas seemed to swoon at Héctor's amigo, but Imelda thought he was far less talented than he appeared to be. He was just very good at creating an illusion...he used Héctor's talent to make himself look good. Imelda would have argued against it, except Héctor didn't seem to mind, much to her frustration and confusion.

“Fine. My songs,” Héctor allowed, wanting to minimise the arguments, “If someone likes the music, they'll pay us enough for them for us to really start our lives, give Coco every opportunity. And I don't have to travel to write songs, I can write them anywhere, I can write them all here, at home, with you”

“And what about when you have to perform them?” Imelda challenged.

Héctor shrugged, “Ernesto can perform them”

“Oh, so you do not want to play for the world anymore?”

“No,” he insisted, “You're my world, mi amor, you and Coco. And that's why I am doing this”

“We are not asking you to. Coco doesn't need new dancing shoes, she doesn't need money to buy her fancy things, she needs her Papá”

“She has me. She always has me, Imelda. And I want to be a good Papá. I want a better life for her than I ever had”

“That's only if this big plan of Ernesto's works”

“It _will_ work”

“Is that you talking, or Ernesto?” The man was more than confident, he was cocky and over-self-assured, and far too confident in himself to be trusted with any decision making. Imelda had come to that conclusion a long time ago and he had done nothing in the years she had known him to convince her otherwise. If you wanted suggestions of how to make a fiesta spectacular, then you went to Ernesto for help, but if you wanted advice on responsibility or actually living a life, then you would do better to stay far away.

“I'm doing this for our family, Imelda,” Héctor had crossed the room now and was beside her before she had even realised, his arms slipping around her to draw her close. She wanted to fight against it, but it was too easy to let herself rest into his arms, her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat pounding softly in her ear.

“You said you would never tour, that you weren't like other músicos,” She protested into his chest, her voice muffled by his camisa, “You said that you were happy playing at weddings and birthdays and---”

“I am, Imelda, I am,” He kissed the top of her head, always finding his espsosa to be the perfect, little height for it whenever he held her in his arms. “But I need to do this for our family, for Coco. It will be four months, six at most. Lo prometo”

But he had not come home at four months or six. In fact, even his letters had stopped before then. Suddenly. Abruptly. There were neither letters for her or for Coco. No letters and no money forwarded on either. All of it just stopped. Imelda had wondered at first if this meant he would be at their door any day, returned home especially early, proving he couldn't bear to be away from his familia. But that hadn't happened either. Just silence.

Worry had initially stirred in her heart, thinking of what might have happened, each theory worst than the last, and each reassurance given to Coco which made her daughter smile only made Imelda's heart heavier as the silence dragged on longer and longer and the money stretched thinner and thinner. Coco's shoes began to wear away and they could not afford to fix them...so Imelda managed to fix them herself. She did much better than she had expected and part of her had wondered if she could learn to do it more seriously. Professionally. Quizás she could make a small living for herself until Héctor returned.

It was when she was in the heart of her mercado, picking up supplies for this tentative venture, that she had heard the music. Coco's special lullaby sung in Ernesto's rich tones, pouring out from a radio whose signal kept crackling every few seconds. But the song was undeniably recognisable to Imelda's ears. Ernesto was singing Recuérdame. Coco's song. For all the world to hear and for all the world to repeat. And now a gaudy romance. A ballad to a sweetheart instead of a lullaby to a daughter.

So Héctor had sold his songs after all. One drop of success and he had apparently forgotten his familia entirely. And Coco's lullaby? Had he been so desperate to reach fame that he would stoop so low as to....quizás he was more like Ernesto than she had ever allowed herself to realise. How else could they have ever been such close amigos. Como hermanos, as Héctor had told her time and time again.

The shock and the anger and the hurt and the betrayal almost made Imelda drop everything she held in her hands, but resolution and determination kept her grip steady as she paid for them all and then marched home, every step hard on the group, sounding like a march to war.

She had thrown everything out that night. Every last piece. All her letters, all the music, all the instruments, the notes, all of it, every last bit. She had taken what items could be sold to the mercado and made enough money from the sales to buy everything else she needed to start making shoes. Héctor was making his living, starting his new life, and Imelda would start her own. And it wouldn't be something frivolous and selfish like music. It would be something useful and dependable. Zapatos. The sound of a zapataría was a different kind of music, one that was reliable and supported her familia rather than abandoning it, and with the no music allowed, Coco would never have to hear that awful song.

The first hint that Imelda had that this was all a dream of memories rather than reality, was when she saw little Coco sat by the older one. Coco when she was a young woman and smiling and _secretly_ dancing despite her Mamá rules. But she had soon realised the importance of the rule, and even Julio had accepted it when he joined their family. He was beside Coco now. The whole familia. Every one of them. Large and full and growing and happy and safe.

 

Amongst them she saw Héctor, just as he had been the day he left, standing there, bold as brass, dressed in his mariachi suit, his guitarra on his back and his maleta in his hand.

"Héctor?" She called out, but as she moved towards him he turned and began to walk away. "Héctor" She called, more a demand now, but still he walked on. Imelda rushed down streets, the same streets she had chased Miguel down, until she caught up with him. She put her hand on his shoulder, turning him around harshly to demand answers, but when she did, his face was a dead face, not a skeleton, not a man in the land of the dead, but a dead man in the Land of the Living. Cold and grey and lifeless and unseeing. She gasped in horror, pulling back her hand and stepping away, trying to retreat from the horrendous, ghastly image.

"Lo siento, Imelda" He apologised. She stepped back even further and found herself in the Land of the Dead, the familiar sounds of the Land of the Remembered all around her, and looking down at herself, she found her hands to be bone rather than flesh. Imelda looked around desperately, looking for anyone at all, anyone familiar or unfamiliar, just someone who could help, but found herself entirely alone...until she heard the sound of a struggle. Following it, she discovered De La Cruz stood on the ledge of the concert hall as he had been on Día de Muertos, before he had thrown Miguel off the side, determined to kill her grandson as he had killed her husband, but it was not Miguel struggling in his grasp now, but Héctor. Héctor as he looked in the Land of the Dead, broken and tattered.

"I know you'll understand," Ernesto said sweetly, before letting go. Imelda hurried forward, throwing herself to the floor, reaching over the edge, and managed to catch Héctor before he fell, holding on to him tightly. 

"Pull yourself up," Imelda encouraged, tugging on him but finding him too heavy to lift, which she knew, in the back of her subconscious mind, made no sense. They weighed so little here, nothing more than bones.

"I can't, Imelda....estoy cansado....I don't have the strength"

"Don't be--" But then she felt the weight of him lighten and she gave one great heave, pulling him over, but as they landed on the floor together, she saw he was half dust, glittering gold in the wind as he faded to nothing before her. The Final Death.

 

* * *

 

“Héctor?” Imelda's own voice woke her up, startling herself, and she looked around in confusion as to where she lay, the memories of last night coming back to her slowly bit by bit. They had brought Héctor back here after had stopped spasming and she had insisted he take her bed. Looking down at her hands, she saw that one was holding another. Raising her gaze she confirmed the hand she was holding was Héctor's. He was sat up, looking at her with wide-eyed concern.

Imelda was not entirely sure what came over her as she looked at him, but she suddenly found herself reaching forward, grasping his head in her hands and kissing him full upon the lips, before she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, ensuring he wasn't going to disappear as he had in her dream.

 


	3. Walking and Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda and Héctor take a walk to discuss their relationship, and whether there is one at all, in privacy away from the prying eyes of their family. But even when decisions are made, doubts and questions can still linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of studying of their behaviour towards one another in the film as well as using romantic references from real life to work on their dynamic and dialogue in this scene, and to figure out where they would be, so hopefully the development of wanting-to-but-not-knowing-how vibes is coming off well.  
> Also as this is now the last week before Christmas, not entirely sure at what point this will be updated. It won't be before Christmas, I don't think, but expect something before New Year's!

Imelda had not meant to kiss Héctor as she did, nor to throw her arms around him like some lovestruck adolsecente. But after the events of día de muertos, the truths they had all learned, and then the things that happened in her dream...she had just wanted to reassure herself that he was there, that the second chance had not been lost. If there was a second chance to be had at all. Imelda was not unaware of the part she had played in Héctor being forgotten. He would not be hanging by a thread now if she had not been so vehement in erasing him from her life and from Coco's. De La Cruz had killed him in life, sí, but she had helped slowly kill him in death.

Héctor had been entirely surprised by Imelda's actions. When she had woken up and called his name, he had barely had the chance to answer, before he had felt her mouth on his, and her arms around him, and that familiar scent that was Imelda was surrounding him. She still smelled and felt the same even after death, even after all these years in the Land of the Remembered, there was still so much that was the same. Perhaps that was why, after the initial shock, he felt himself naturally wrap his arms around her middle, no more than a thin spine now, and hold her close. Old habits returning to him so easily.

It couldn't be this easy, could it? He and Imelda couldn't just slip back into how things were...could they? If that was what Imelda wanted then Héctor had no arguments, pero...he couldn't help but think that was a fool's dream. Fantasy. There was too much history, too much....everything.

And she had told him, outright, that she couldn't forgive him. But she had also said that he was the love of her life.

And had she been singing to him on stage? Was that look for him? That line for him? Would she really not stop loving him?

He was so confused.

Imelda realised what she was doing and pulled away, awkward and hesitant. She could not just swing into things as if nothing had happened, as if all the past was a bad dream. She cleared her throat as she avoided his eyes, afraid of what he would see there.

“Lo siento...I....” Ay, she needed to pull herself together like the grown woman she was. She was an adult not a child. “I thought maybe you would be gone when I woke”

“So...eh...that relieved?” He asked, a small grin pulling at one corner of his mouth and he felt sure he saw something of a blush in Imelda's brilliantly white cheek bones. So white and gleaming, every part of her was as remembered as the newly arrived. It had to be more than familia who remembered her for her to gleam that brightly....it wouldn't surprise Héctor. He always thought she made a lasting impression wherever she went. He looked down at his own huesos and saw them yellow and fading. He might feel a bit better, but he certainly didn't look any different.

Imelda could feel a heat in her cheek bones, and in her whole body, a flood of embarrassment at behaving so childishly. Throwing herself at him...it was one thing to do it on stage, after the thrill of performing, of remembering the thrill that music and dancing and singing could bring, pero ahora? What was her excuse now? She was only going to confuse matter and make them worse.

“Héctor,” She began and she saw him lean in ever so lightly, eyes wide, listening intently for whatever she had to say, but then there was a knock at her bedroom door, a loud rap, which startled them both, the pair jumping a mile apart. Héctor managed to lose a limb or two. One hand going the other way and his head flying a little in the air before landing back on his neck. His wayward hand ran back over the bed to jump back onto his wrist. He laughed nervously as he flexed it, checking it was all in place.

 _Díos_ , Imelda thought, _he is falling apart as much as his clothes._ It was a sobering realisation, even more so than seeing him so faint last night, glowing and weak.

Blinking a little so the prick of tears wouldn't betray her thoughts and feelings, Imelda turned to look in the direction of the knock and saw her nieta stood in the doorway.

“Buenas tardes, Victoria,” It had to be late afternoon by now at the earliest.

The rest of the Riveras had all woken up a little while before Imelda and Héctor had stirred, and already Rosita had begun working in the cocina to create something nice to eat. Usually, they would have food from the ofrenda to eat and indulge in, but they had not made it further than the cemetary due to Miguel and so desayuno would have to be something ordinary.

Victoria had volunteered to see if Mamá Imelda and Héctor were awake, but it had really been her own curiosity that had drawn her to the room. Pure curiosity of wanting to get a better look at this man that, until last night, had been entirely faceless in the few mentions that had ever been made of him. He even had a name now. Before he had simply been her abuela's epsoso, the man who left, That Músico....now he was Héctor, and Victoria found herself itching to see a little more of him, even if only for a glimpse or even a few bare words. She had gotten to know a little of him when they had brought him home, but he had been asking more questions than he had been answering them and Victoria was burning with her own preguntas. But part of her wondered if she would be allowed to ask them...Héctor did not seem the type of person to be offended by them, but her abuelita...how would she feel about it? Was Héctor being here a temporary thing or not?

Seeing them sat together in Mamá Imelda's bedroom, their hands close despite having jumped apart, made Victoria wonder if Héctor' being here would turn out to be a little more permanent.

“Buenas tardes...Tía Rosita is making breakfast” She looked over her glasses at her abuelos, “We wanted to know if either of you felt hungry”

“Ooh,” Héctor's brow bones raised in delighted interested, and he already began to lean forward, inching in the direction of the door even while he was still in bed, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Gracias, querida,” Imelda said, hand still firmly on Héctor's arm, “But you eat together and we will join you in a little while. Pero, we must talk first”

Victoria straightened her glasses and then folded her arms over her chest. “Talk alone?” She guessed

“Sí,”

Héctor looked between abuela and nieta and could see so many similarities between the two, that the pair seemed to be having a silent conversation he couldn't even hear for, without a single word further being said, Victoria nodded as if there was some great understanding and said, “I'll tell tía to keep it warm”

“She's...ah...talkative,” Héctor observed once the woman had left the room.

“She is,” Imelda agreed without a hint of a jest, “But it takes her time to be that way and she _knows_ when quiet is better”

Héctor nodded. He supposed in Victoria's eyes he was still a stranger....she was techincally a stranger to him. His own nieta a stranger to him. The hunger he had felt only a moment ago suddenly transformed into just a heavy pit of remorse. A whole familia and he had never known it, not in life, not even in death. All because of what? A stupid musical fantasy and an amigo's ambition? Imelda was right. Músicos were just self-important jerks.

“So we're....ah...talking?” He asked, eyes flickering from Imelda to the floor to his lap, to Imelda, to the floor to his lap and back again, nervously.

“We are” Imelda stood from the chair, “And we are taking a walk to do it. I do not want the familia to be able to eavesdrop” Which she knew perfectly well that they would. Her hermanos had been notorious for it from the very moment they could crawl, and Rosita and Julio usually could not resist, which inevitably led to Victoria joining them all. But this conversation had to be entirely private, it needed to be.

 

The streets were exactly as Imelda expected them to be the day after Día de Muertos. There was debris everywhere, leftovers from fiestas and comida and everything expected from the most lively night of the year in the Land of the Dead. In Imelda's opinion it was a mess. She hated what was left over, the destruction, the lack of care, the...mess. Some people tried to clean up, but others did not care. As for the people, there were not so many around as normal...so many people choosing to take today as a day of rest, a day for reflection and being at home and nothing more. Only a few vendors dotted the streets and a few people walking among them.

As she and Héctor walked, Imelda could feel the awkward tension coming off him in waves. She remembered him being like this when he first courted her. They had known each other all their lives, children from different worlds who lived in the same little pueblo. Imelda's family had been impossibly small; a sickly mother and a pair of troublesome twins for brothers and not much else. But Héctor's had been even smaller, an orphan, with nothing and no one to his name; the only person whoever paid attention to the orphan boy was an angry nun scolding him for making a spectacle of himself in the plaza again.

She and Héctor had played together as children. Innocent and smiling, he had been, not a close friend, but a friend, and as they grew older, he became someone she always smiled at and waved at and spoke to. Other people called him names, insulted his looks, insulted his nature, mocked him, laughed at him, and that was, quizás, why Imelda had always been so determined to say hola to him and to prove that not everyone was so cruel.

And then one day, he wouldn't speak to her. One day, the normally over chatty niño wouldn't say a single word, his mouth clammed shut and his teeth red. They had been sixteen at the time. It took Héctor an entire six months to confess he wanted, hoped, without much promise, that she would be more than his amiga. It had taken him almost half an hour to explain exactly what he meant. Imelda had considered the pregunta for a long moment before telling him she would not know her answer unless he stepped out with her. If he courted her for one night successfully, without being as embarrassing and insulting and tiresome as any other hombre in town, then she would considered being more than his amiga.

He had been so determined to win the agreement, that the entire night had been planned from start to finish with wonders...and not a single one of them went to plan. At the end of the night, Héctor had look broken and down-hearted, certain he had lost and entirely devastated by it. Imelda had sat herself beside him and kissed him on the cheek. When he turned to look at her with those large brown eyes filled with sadness, she had kissed him on the lips. Intent matters so much more than the outcome, she had told him, taking his hand in hers.

And he had _intended_ to come home. The outcome had been as much beyond his control as all those failed ventures on that fateful night in the plaza when they were young adolescentes. And yet she had placed the blame on him for nearly a hundred years. Ay, even if Héctor could forgive her, she could not forgive herself. And could she forgive him for leaving in the first place? For trusting Ernesto so blindly?

But good men were trusting and Héctor was a good man, as good a man as she had thought he was in the beginning, before he left and never came home. She had thought Héctor such a good man, good and honest and loyal, things that put him head and shoulders above the rest of the men in Santa Cecilia. She had never been one to care about looks or charm or muscles or any of the things the other women seemed to bother with. She had wanted a man who she could trust, who she could rely on, who would be honest and loyal, who would be dedicated to his family, who would never lie to her and who had a good heart.

She had thought all of that had been a lie, an illusion she had foolishly believed, pero ahora, after last night....

Héctor, as they walked, couldn't stop thinking about the following things: Imelda saying she was the love of his life, Imelda singing That Line in his direction, Imelda jumping into his arms, Imelda holding his hand for a very long time, Imelda keeping by his side as he slept, and Imelda kissing him when he woke up. His thoughts were, for all intents and purposes, filled with Imelda and the hope that quizás, solo quizá, she might let him back into her life....quizás even her corazón. It made him nervous because he didn't want to ruin the one chance he might have.

If that was any chance at all. He had always felt Imelda could have had someone much, much better than himself and now he felt that way even more so. In all those years apart, all that time, she had been doing everything alone, and not just that...but excelling. She had done so much, she was so accomplished, achieved so much without him there, without even needing him there. She had done everything herself single-handedly, shown how much she could achieve, how much she could do, how much she was capable of. All, not without him, but in spite of him. She had done all this and more to survive, because he hadn't been there beside her to help and support her as he had promised to be.

What could he even offer her now? And how long for? Dios, he was even less worthy of her than he ever was.

Feeling incredibly aware of this and incredibly awkward about it, Héctor cross his arm over his chest, grasping his other arm in his hand. Walking like the awkward adolescente he felt like.

They continued to walk, trapped in their own thoughts and neither of them speaking until Imelda eventually decided that if they were going to talk it required actual talking and she, as the oldest, as she had always been, if only by a year, had the responsibility of going first.

“Héctor...” She began and immediately felt Héctor straighten up, all alert and attentive as he looked to her, “I....I...” Ay, why was it so hard? “I forgive you”

Héctor stopped walking and as he fell behind, Imelda was forced to stop walking as well, to turn around and look at him, to try and see his expression, to see, after all this, if he would accept her forgiveness. Ay, she felt certain in every area of life, unmoved in her opinions and decisions, but in all of her vida, there had been one persona who had the ability to make her question things, to listen to other sides, to even hesitate. And he had been back in her life for five minutes and he was already doing it to her again!

“Imelda--” He began, but she held up her hand, cutting him off before he could speak too much and she would lose the determination to say what she needed to say.

“Last night, there was so much to happen, so much to _learn_...” When Miguel had told her that Héctor had been murdered while trying to come home, there had been so many thoughts and feelings inside her, she wasn't able to recognise them all at once. She had felt horror that Ernesto would have done that, horror that the reason he hadn't come home was because he couldn't not because he wouldn't, all these years of thinking he chose fame when in fact....but then she had thought how long had it been before he had decided to come home. Six months, a year, two years, three? Héctor was obviously younger than herself when he had died, but...she didn't know how young. How many years had it taken? Was she supposed to forgive him because after three years he changed his mind? And he had left in the first place. He had listened to Ernesto's arguments instead of her own, and even with his promises to be home soon, he had still left. He had still left her and Coco alone. And if he hadn't left none of this would have happened.

Forgiveness was not an easy thing to give with all that in mind, no matter what truths had come out.

“But when I was on that stage...I...” She did _not_ want to admit how terrified she had been. Thrown up there into a world she had forbidden for a century, with all those people staring, waiting. It had felt like she was twenty two years old again and all of Santa Cecilia had given her those pitying looks that her músico of a husband had left her in the end just like they suspected, and all the looks as they waited for to fail at surviving alone. Fear had been in her chest even as she sang the first lines of that song.

But then one string of the guitar, a small quiet accompaniment telling her that she wasn't alone up there.

“You made sure I was not alone on that stage. And when I saw you playing, trying to help me,” The little nod of encouragement he had given had reached in past all the cages and bars and locks and walls to the heart she had kept safely hidden away from him for so many years. “It made me realise two very important things” She swallowed, trying to find the strength needed for her words, “It made me realise what I had forgotten for a very long time. That you never left me alone, Héctor. In all our short time together, you were always supporting me no matter what I did or decided to do or decided to say. That a man like that would have always been beside me if you could have been” And it made her remember his hesitance at leaving, the reluctance, how Ernesto had to practically drag him onto the train as he looked back at his wife and daughter.

“....And what was the other thing?” Héctor asked, tension and apprehension in ever word as he looked at her with wide, wondrous eyes, barely daring to say much of anything at all for fear of ruining the moment or proving it was in fact all a dream and he was back in Shantytown alone without his familia, without Imelda.

“The other....” This was the harder thing to say. But Imelda had never been a woman to run from anything or to let her fears or worries control her. So she took the torro by the horns, took a deep breath she _techincally_ didn't need, and said, “it made me also realise that I never stopped loving you. Even when I wanted to. I wanted to forget you, sí, because to forget you was to forget the pain, but I wanted to hate you too. I wanted to hate you so much, pero...the best I could ever do was try to pretend you never happened”

Héctor recalled her singing That Line, and looking directly at him as she did, even smiling, as she walked down the stairs. He swallowed.

“You love me?” He asked, voice and expression hopeful as he looked at his estranged esposa in disbelief. “I _am_ the love of your life?”

Ay, Imelda had known the moment that she had said it that Héctor would not let her forget, that he would latch onto it just as he latched onto anything.

“I--” She began, but he spoke over her, already eager and energetic.

“Te amo también,” He declared, “I love you so much Imelda, I always have, always will” His hands were on her arms now.

“Héctor--”

“And as long as you will have me, mi amor, estoy aqui” The hands he had on her arms he used to lift her high into the air.

“¡Ay, Héctor!” She yelled as he spun her around and when he placed her back down on the ground, he had a grin so wide that it was spread almost entirely across his whole face, his gold tooth gleaming. In the back of her mind, Imelda knew she would have to ask him where that happened.

“Ahora, Héctor, calm down, por favor,” She pleaded with him. She was loathe to see that smile fade (how quickly she had fallen back into old habits) but she had to tell him the rest of her thoughts before he could get carried away. “It is not that simple” She brushed her hair out of her face where it had fallen into her eyes as he had spun her around, and realised that she had not thought to rebraid it before she had taken this walk with Héctor. Her mind had been too consumed with thoughts of what she needed to say to think about practicalities like her hair. “Saying that you love someone, that you are _in_ love with them, it is not always enough. It was not enough in _life_ to keep us together, we cannot be sure it will not be the same in death”

“But--”

“I am not saying I do not _want_ it to be enough, or that I do not want to _try_ , I just...I want to be realistic. I do not want to....” _I do not want to have my heart broken again_ , she thought silently. “I do not want either of us to expect too much”

Héctor considered everything she said, before speaking himself, but he already knew what he wanted to say long before Imelda had spoken, and what she had said had not changed his mind.

“Imelda,” He began, hesitating before daring to reach out to tuck her hair over her shoulder. He might have tucked it behind her ear when they were alive, fingers trailing down her neck, and she would laugh, deny that it tickled, even as she continued to laugh. “I am never going to stop loving you. I never have. It's been 96 years since we were together...you think if I didn't give up then I'm going to give up now when I'm finally so close? I don't know how much time I have, how long I'll be remembered...but as long as I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. I don't care whether loving someone is enough or not...you're the only one for me, Imelda. Always have been. Always will be”

Stood there together en la calle, with Héctor making innocent declarations of love, his eyes so full of hope and open affection, Imelda could almost believe herself to be young again, to be young and alive, when Héctor was first courting her, when he would write her songs, when he would play his guitarra and she would sing and it would be the two of them and no one else.

But that was someone a very long time ago, so long that Imelda was not even certain if she knew that woman anymore, or if she was just a stranger to her now. A stranger who did not know the struggles and heartbreak that Imelda had had to battle every day for so many years of her life and her death.

“For nearly a hundred years I have done everything I can to...forget how I felt about you, to convince myself that you were not even worth the memory, nearly a hundred years of erasing you from my life, from my familia....that does not come undone overnight, Héctor. And that is for both of us” She added before he could protest further. “We are both probably people who are muy diferente from the people we were when we knew each other”

“I don't think we're _that_ different” Quizás it was because Héctor had lost his life so young, that his years had been spent eternally twenty-one in the Land of the Dead, but he didn't feel much different from the man he had been when he had married Imelda. A little more cynical perhaps, a little more worn, a little tired...but otherwise. And Imelda...she was...older and even more closed off than she used to be, but she was still the Imelda he remembered. Feisty and determined and brave and clever...and very much...what was the phrase that niño used? Out of his league?

“We were muy diferente when we started courting, Imelda,” He reminded her. Opposites who found shared things in música and a love for family. Those two things had been the groundwork on which they had built their relationship, discovering more about each other, falling in love.

“That's--”

“Let me court you then” He suggested and Imelda blinked in utter shock and surprise.

“I—What?!”

“Step out with me. If we have to build things then...let us build them like we did the first time” He was grinning again, energetic with the fervour of a new idea, an idea he was sure was absolutely brilliant. And not like those times he thought he had a brilliant idea to cross the bridge. Not like those times at all. This time it was something that would really work.

“Courting?” Imelda shook her head, “Héctor, I am too old to be--”

He waved a hand, cutting her off, before looking around desperately for something, before finding a flower left from the celebrations, a flower that had not been crushed or trampled. He held it out in offering. “Señorita Rivera, would you do me the honour of stepping out with me?” He wiggled his brow bones for added appeal.

“Héctor...” Despite herself, Imelda found herself smiling. A roll of the eyes accompanied by unintended laughter followed as she took the flower from his hand. “Bien. I will step out with you. But” She added warningly, “Do not blame me if any of this goes wrong”

“Ah, but it won't,” Héctor said confidently, holding out an arm for her to take. She paused for a long moment, looking at the offering, before nodding to herself and taking his arm, falling into step beside him as they began their walk back to the casa. Ay, what was she doing?

 

On their way back home, when they were little more the five minutes from the front door, Imelda saw that the afternoon mercados had begun to set up, some stalls already appealing to people, offering this and that for sale. One was selling a collection of coloured shawls that immediately drew the eye with their bright patterns and wonderful fabrics. Imelda had never really been a woman who enjoyed a shawl, even in life, unless it was a cold night and she was in bed and old bones needed the extra warmth...but in death, she had no purpose for them and certainly no desire. Yet, the man at the stall seemed to interpret her stare for interest rather than reflection and immediately called out to the couple.

“¡Señor! Señora! Qué día tan bonito!” He exclaimed, calling them over. Imelda tried to tug in the other direction, but Héctor, just as she remembered him, stepping closer out of polite interest. “You two seem like you had a long día de muertos”

“Eventful,” Héctor said, with a knowing look to Imelda, but that was enough for the vendor to realise something.

“Wait, you,” He pointed to Imelda, “You are the woman who was singing last night at the Sunrise Spectacular. La Llorona!”

Imelda immediately felt herself tense. She was not even certain yet how she felt about music, whether an acceptance of Héctor meant an acceptance of music or not. Singing on stage had reminded her of how much she enjoyed it, but....music was still the reason Héctor left, why he was killed, why Miguel was cursed, why he nearly died. Could all the bad be outweighed by a little good? But it was going to be all the more difficult to think on the matter if people started pointing her out in the street as the woman who sang at the concierto of Ernesto De La Cruz.

“I saw that performance...you were fantastic!” The man continued, before looking at Héctor, “You have a very talented abuela, señor”

Abuela. Sí, Imelda was an abuela. But not to Héctor. She was Héctor's wife. Or had been. Still was. Ay, she did not know, but she was not his abuela. Though...was that how it looked to everyone. He was eternally twenty-one and she was...seventy two. It did not matter that you felt eternally young in the Land of the Remembered...age could still be determined by those who had been here long enough to spot the signs. Suddenly, Imelda remembered her hair was down. The grey and white in her hair was better hidden when it was braided and pinned in place...down it was there for all to see.

Dios, did she really look like she was taking the arm of her grandson?

“Hey,” Héctor protested, breaking Imelda from her thoughts as she saw him pointing a finger in the vendor's face. “You do know people die at different ages? My daughter is nearly a _hundred_ years old and still alive...when she arrives are you going to be thinking _she's_ my abuela too? For your information, I was _poisoned_ when I was twenty one by Ernesto De La Murderer, but my _wife_ got to live a long, healthy life”

Mildly touched by how quickly he jumped to defence, his words were only serving to remind Imelda of the difference in age, which meant the differences in experiences. Héctor didn't know what it was like to turn forty, or to start finding wrinkles in the mirror or to see grey hairs or to feel aches in your hands or your legs...he just knew what it was like to be twenty one. If they began courting again, just as Héctor had suggested, would everyone who saw them presume they were grandmother and grandson....or was it just this one idiota who made that mistake?

Maybe their biggest difference wasn't anything as complicated as their lives or their time apart or their misunderstandings. Maybe it was their age. And if others saw it, how long would it be before she and Héctor started to see it too?

 


End file.
